


High Tide

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Breast Fetish probably, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Running
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia and Stiles have kind of a special relationship. The kind where she's on her knees for him in the dark more often than not, but it's still a special occasion when she lets him have the reins. Tonight is one of those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Tide

They always start in the dark. 

It makes getting undressed a bitch – she doesn't know her way around his room, and if it were up to her, she'd fold all her clothes neatly and set them on the dresser before getting into position, and probably finger-comb her hair in front of a mirror, too. She can't do that when it's pitch dark, and it throws her off. 

But of course, she knows the _point_ of it. It's power games, getting her vulnerable before they even start. If she can't see him, can't fold her clothes, can't even make herself look as cute as possible for this, he's more than a few steps ahead, and that's how he likes it. 

All without having to use a blindfold or handcuffs or any of that stuff. She has to admit that if she was running this show – explicitly, that is, because of course she _is_ running this show, just from the receiving end – she wouldn't have thought of that.

Once she's naked and in position, which of course means on her knees because there are _some_ conventions Stiles still subscribes to and that's one of the classics, he makes her wait. Sometimes it's longer than others, and she knows it has to do with how much homework he has that can be done without the use of his computer, downstairs in the living room. Tonight most of their assignments were of the essay variety, so sure enough, it's not ten minutes before the door opens and she hears him kick off his shoes into the corner. 

"Hey, Lydia."

Certain behaviors, or rather restrictions on their behavior, are somewhat limited by their setting, of course. This could never have happened in her house – she wouldn't be nearly as off-balance, for one thing, but more importantly it's about fifty times as likely that someone would find out. Scott may have a habit of climbing through windows, but Lydia's friends have a habit of showing up in _groups_ , and it's much easier for Stiles to text Scott something misleading to suggest that he isn't home than it is for Lydia to somehow just stop being popular for a few hours while the biggest loser in Beacon Hills gets her to kneel for him. And of course, anywhere else would be impractical – public locations are obviously a no, and any hotel room would require a credit card, creating a record of their sessions together for one of their parents to potentially unearth and have questions about. 

So Stiles' house it is, with its creaking floors and thin walls, and it means they'll never manage to do anything in complete silence. If she shifts her weight around on her knees and for some reason he doesn't catch it (far-fetched in itself – Stiles _always_ watches her, always), he'll hear it, earning her some kind of punishment. And if he wants to creep up on her while she's waiting for him, they need music on first, something to mask the cacophony of the sheriff's ill-maintained house creaking and squeaking to announce his entrance. 

But not tonight. Tonight he's doing this as much in the open as the two of them can manage. 

The light comes on. 

He's behind her – having Lydia face away from the door is another trick of his to keep her on edge – and she can feel the shift in temperature an instant before she feels his skin: both his hands around hers, which are clasped in the small of her back (another classic). It's an effort to keep her arms malleable without her form looking sloppy as he works at her hands, physically unclasping her fingers instead of giving an order. When he lets go, she lets her arms fall to her sides and doesn't swing them. Just holds them there, steady. She can do perfect form. She _is_ perfect form. 

"Good girl," he breathes. 

She starts – she didn't realize his mouth was so close to her neck, but the hot breath doesn't lie. He must be on his knees, then. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't an appealing visual, but she doesn't turn. She's better than that. 

Then his hand is on her head, pushing it down. Again it's an effort to figure out how much resistance he wants, how hard he wants her to go down, but she moderates herself carefully, going slowly and precisely until the very point where she knows she wouldn't be able to support herself if she arched forward anymore. 

"Need some help?" Stiles asks. 

Lydia licks her lips before answering. "Yeah."

Instead of the offered help, she gets a hard pinch to her side. "Come on," he chides. "You can do better than that."

Lydia's smile is tiny and private. "Yes, please," she corrects herself. "If you don't mind."

Stiles stands up – she hears him stand up. For a better view, most likely. She can't blame him. She knows how good she looks like this. "You can use your elbows," he grants. 

So she does, laying her arms on the floor in front of her, palms flat, before curving her back the rest of the way forward. "Thanks," she breathes, basically to the floor, once she's in position. 

"It still might cost you," he says, a little bit of an inside joke between the two of them. He's said that many times before. 

She hears him circling her after that – hears him, and sees him too, because even with her forehead nearly to the floor she can still see his socks, the left one sporting a hole in the big toe, every time he passes in front of her. She's approaching the point where she'll say something to provoke him, which happens maybe one in four of these little sessions, but he beats her to it when he stops circling to make an observation.

"I'm not sure I've ever told you you have a really nice _back_."

The best thing about this position is that he can't see the look on her face when he says things like this. "Thank you," she says, modulating her tone perfectly. Another night, she might let him hear the amusement in her tone, try to provoke him into smacking her around some to speed things along. Tonight she's oddly zen, and content to see where this goes if she lets him take the reins. 

"I mean, that's why I make you kneel, you probably figured that out," Stiles continues. "Did you?"

It's a little harder to mask her amusement this time, but she manages. "Yes, Stiles." 

"Figured." He picks up one foot like he's going to start walking again, but then stops. It's probably hitting him now that she's really letting him steer tonight. You might think that would happen more than it does, in this kind of relationship, but you'd be an idiot. "I'm not just gonna look at it all night, though," he adds. "I mean, it's not my favorite part of you, I'm not blind." 

The first time he said something like that to her, he stammered his way through an apology. He's getting much better at it now. 

She feels a pressure at her shoulderblades, light and soft and trailing all the way downward to her lower back. If she had to guess just from the feel of it, she might have guessed it was a single finger, but the creak of the floorboards tells her it's his foot. He does it twice more, tickling her just enough to get a single tremble out of her, before he takes a step back. 

"Okay, stand up," Stiles instructs. 

Lydia does, slowly, as if emerging from a yoga position. Once she's up, he tells her to turn around and she does that too, relishing as she always does the moment his mouth falls open just a little bit when he gets a good look at her breasts. 

Naturally, the first thing he does after that is touch them. 

If she _had_ concluded earlier that the soft touch of Stiles' socked foot was actually his finger, she would have been very wrong, because his actual fingers are rough and calloused and a complete testament to the hours he's spent doing physical work lately – lacrosse, climbing the wall in gym class, hauling werewolves all over town. The touch of his fingertips on the undersides of her breasts is coarse but not unpleasant, and his firm grip is… well, it's only pleasant because it _isn't_.

He touches her for a while, curling and uncurling his fingers, loosening and tightening his grip. He presses her breasts together and then mashes them tight against her chest, then lets go entirely to watch them bounce back into place. He flicks her nipples inwards, then out, pinches the left one and then the right, catches the flesh between two fingers and pulls outward until she leans forward to follow his grip. 

Then he makes eye contact with her, asking silent permission in that Stiles way of his, and when she raises her eyebrows back at him, he gets a little rougher – smacking them lightly, pinching with the aid of his bitten-down fingernails, delivering little scratches on the undersides. He has her jump only to catch her breasts in his hands, then bounces them back up. After a while he has her get back on her knees and elbows, watching them hang there in front of her, and pushes them back and forth like a pendulum. 

"Lick," he instructs after a while. 

That's a new one from him. Lydia can barely stop herself from arching an eyebrow of 'are you _serious_?' his way. 

"Seriously," he says. "Just sort of… push that up there and lick it."

Barely containing a sigh, Lydia lifts her left breast up to her mouth and licks it, cat-like, tongue flicking out toward her nipple. She thinks she must look ridiculous, but Stiles is no help in confirming or denying that: he's as transfixed as ever, amber eyes huge and mouth ajar. 

"It's hot," he tells her. Maybe he's learned over the past few months how to recognize when she's a little less secure than usual. She wonders if she's okay with that. "Really hot."

Well. That's comforting. 

"Okay, stand up," he instructs, and she does, gladly, without making a show of it this time. "Weird if I ask you to run a couple laps around the room?"

Another 'are you serious?' look. 

"Okay, that's it, you're doing it," he decides. "Just watch the garbage, and maybe don't…" Stiles kicks a few things out of the way. Lydia thinks of the time he made her clean his room for him while wearing just his T-shirt, and she hides her grin her shoulder. That doesn't stop her from being properly mystified by this new thing he wants her to do. Running? Really? "There," he says, shoving his desk chair into the closet. "Go." 

Well, she's not going to safeword out, is she, so she puts her hands in front of her and starts running around the room at a light jog. It isn't the treadmill at the country club, that's for sure – the treadmill tends to have a lot fewer obstacles – but she gets the hang of it after a few laps,and even though she isn't _panting_ or anything, she does break a sweat. Her breasts, of course, are heaving with every stride, which Lydia's sure is Stiles' real motivation here, but she can't deny that she's also getting wet from the visual of him sprawled out across his bed, watching her with the exact right mixture of reverence and arousal. 

"God, you just… bounce so much," he manages after lap six or seven. "Do all girls bounce this mu—forget it, it's irrelevant. Are you wet yet?"

"Yes," she – okay, fine, she's breathing hard while she says it, but that doesn't make it _panting_. She is in more than adequate shape to manage a few laps around Stiles Stilinski's tiny bedroom. 

" _Cool_." Just when he'd gotten those points for saying other girls didn't matter, he has to knock himself down a few points by being such a nerd. She can forgive him for that, though, because she knows he's about to eat her out. 

She sits delicately on the bed, legs crossed until he scrambles up off the mattress and kneels in front of her. It's a _weird_ relationship, theirs, and she never feels it more than when he's about to do to her what she by all accounts should really be doing to him. 

Not that this _is_ a relationship, of course, except in all the ways that matter.

He guides her knees apart, but doesn't dive in with his face yet. "I can't believe you get wet from that," he says, looking up at her from between her legs. "You just -- it's me, I'm… it's so easy to turn you on, Lydia, christ." Even _that_ turns her on, the pleasant tinge of humiliation that comes from _> Stiles Stilinski_ pointing out her deviance. "I bet if we went to the lab, we could come up with something that'll measure what turns you on the most. Besides 'everything.' You'll be like a science slut." (She asked for that word once, told him to use it, really, and it's only recently that he's been able to say it without glancing at her eyes to make sure she's not about to break down in tears or something. He's such a sweet guy it kills her sometimes.) "You know? Just… slutting for science. We'll make you really useful, Lydia, swear to god." 

She almost, almost wants to flop back on the bed at that, or scoot forward and grind her pussy into his face, just – _something_ , because someone turning her on like that and letting her just ride it out has never been the way Lydia Martin does things. " _Stiles_ ," she grits out. 

"Yeah, yeah, pushy," he says, but without any warning, he grabs her hips and pulls her forward so he can dive into her sex tongue-first, and this… this is where Stiles really shines, because he knows exactly how much pressure she likes, can lick and lap and swirl his tongue exactly right, and it's all been a work of trial and error because Stiles _really_ likes having her in his mouth. Lydia is and has always been restrained, and has never once pushed him forward or gripped his hair no matter how much she's wanted to, but he's figured it out from her noises and the way she writhes and, presumably, the taste of her as well. The bottom line is that she has never known anyone who was better than him at this, and of course she'll never let him know that but oh _god_ does she love it when he really goes to town on her. 

She draws her knees further apart to give him more space; Stiles uses this resource as thoroughly as he uses every advantage he's ever given, and dives in deeper, his nose pressing against her skin as his tongue laps ravenously inside of her. His hands are without a doubt leaving finger bruises on her hips, dark ones probably, and he isn't even shifting his weight around or twitching like he does almost every minute of every day, because if there is anything in the world Stiles can focus on, it's Lydia's cunt, and she wouldn't have it any other way. 

She's close, really close, when one of his hands detaches itself from her hip and reaches up blindly to grab her tit; the force of it, combined with the complex tongue-swirl he pairs it with, is enough to push her over the edge, and Stiles drops his hands because he knows by now that she has a tendency to thump back on the bed and he's right because she does. Lydia's always been able to orgasm quietly, silently even, but this time she has to moan it out, both hands in fists in Stiles' bedsheets as she arches her back and nearly _screeches_ out her pleasure until the crashing waves inside her soften to low tide.

When she's done, Stiles keeps licking for another moment or two before he draws back, looking up at her. 

"You good?" he asks. 

It takes her a minute to trust her voice and sit up enough to look back at him, but eventually she gets out an "Uh-huh." 

Stiles smirks. "Yeah, we're definitely gonna use the lab equipment next time," he says, even though they both know they're going to use no such thing. "Go shower. I got you that apple body wash you like."

Lydia heaves herself up, plucks Stiles' towel off the hook, and doesn't even bother to wrap it around herself before she saunters off to the shower. She sways when she walks, like she knows she's the most sexually-satisfied girl in California, and she whistles in the shower just to make sure Stiles knows it too.


End file.
